Catching Colds

A story describing the plight of a runaway.

She sits in the bathtub, wading in the cold water. Drops of blood from her nose fall and disperse like maroon smoke in the still liquid. She looks to her bathroom mirror, shattered as it is, she can see the powder on the counter, in its broken reflection. The landlord’s coming soon, she knows it must be cleaned up. A long time ago there was someone to do that for her, clean up her messes. She remembers her mother, someone who would coddle her on a cold night like this; a figure she’s long since abandoned. She remembers her calm demeanor, gentle eyes and neat appearance. A feeling not unlike regret, wells in her chest; was it necessary to become rude...selfish, rebellious even. Necessary to become independent? At the time it was. At the time her nemesis was anyone who had any power, anyone old enough to make decisions. and now, sitting in her bathtub, by her own definition she was “powerful” yet unable to banish her costly addictions. She missed her mother, even the strange rules only mothers create; and she knew, even then, that running was not the right decision. But as pride works it is easier, to make the worst choice. Snapping back to reality she realizes there is no time for reminiscence. Pulling the drain; she dries herself as the water escaping down the pipe roars like a caged animal. She decides, leaving the flat would be easiest, as she would be evicted in hours anyway. Packing her small bag, she concludes also, that the rent will be skipped again this month. As she steps towards the door, her eyes glimpse the swift rain and a tingle in her scalp sparks the echo of sweet words. She pulls her hood over and walks through the door. Her wet hair, chilling as she sprints through the cold.

Author's Note

Does it make any sense...?